


At The End Of The World

by Lutte



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lutte/pseuds/Lutte
Summary: It all started with a name...His name.Two stupid words, and his entire world changed.





	At The End Of The World

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly inspired by The Hunger Games, a la Captive Prince.

“I volunteer!” Auguste’s voice broke through the stunned silence of the crowd and imbedded itself in Laurent’s heart as the one sound that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. 

Which was almost funny, considering he had thought, seconds before, that the worst sound was Vannes’s voice calling out his name from the slip of paper.

But what did he know.

The guards pulled him to a halt and turned. Auguste stood betwixt two soldiers; face ashen with the realization of what he now had to do. The choice he had made. His life for Laurent’s. 

And there wasn’t a thing Laurent could do to stop it. Once a volunteer declared themselves, their name was set in stone. Auguste would compete. And, most likely, he would die.

“No!” 

The screams tearing from Laurent’s throat finally made their way to his ears. He hadn’t even been aware of his struggles against the guards before he was pulled away and carried to his mother by Jord. His feet hit the ground like two lead weights and the arms that encircled him were the only things keeping him in place. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to run or fall to his knees.

He knew that neither would make any difference.

“Our first volunteer!” Vannes’s words were cheerful. Too cheerful. As if she had no idea what this meant for Auguste. What it meant for any of them. But, of course, she knew. Not that it mattered. At this point, she was desensitized by the sparkle and glamour with which the Regency decorated their games of murder. And it must have been hard to see the pain behind it when you and your family weren’t involved. Those in the capital of Arles were safe from the games. To them, it was just a show. One that the rest of the districts would have been lucky, eager even, to compete in. 

All of them chomping at the bit to die.

Maybe it seemed like the better option. Quick, if nothing else.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Vannes cooed, angling the microphone. Auguste stared at Laurent and nothing else. 

“Auguste Renault.”

That name had meant something once. Eighteen years ago, when people actually remembered its origins. Remembered the Renault family and their status in the world. But their father had given that up the day he met their mother, and the name had disappeared with all the other things that used to matter. 

Not many years after, their father had gone as well. 

“Renault,” she repeated, as if somehow the crowd needed a reminder of whom he had volunteered for. As if it wasn’t obvious. “So that must have been your brother.”

“Yes,” Auguste murmured the word, and Laurent felt his heart crack apart in his chest. 

This might be the last time he ever heard his brother’s voice. 

“Well, he is lucky to have you,” Vannes said, placing a hand on Auguste’s shoulder. She squeezed gently, and for a moment Laurent could have sworn that she actually understood the gravity of the situation. That she was offering him comfort. That she knew Auguste had just saved Laurent’s life with the knowledge that he was going to die in his place.

Because Laurent would have never lasted in the games. Small, bookish boy that he was. He’d read all about weapons, but he’d only started practicing with a sword three weeks ago when Auguste had insisted. 

He didn’t know the first thing about fighting, let alone killing. 

Boys like him didn’t live long after the countdown ended. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you this year’s tributes,” Vannes spread her arms apart to indicate the two standing beside her. “Beatrice Martin and Auguste Renault!”

The crowd was silent, staring. Just like every year when Vannes called out the names of the next set of children to be sent for slaughter. Laurent tried to focus on Beatrice. On anything that wasn’t the horrible truth standing up on that stage. 

She was in his grade. Only thirteen. All thin limbed and wide-eyed with terror. Just as he had been. Just as he was now, but for a different reason. 

She wouldn’t make it. She knew that. 

So did her siblings as they watched her go, too stricken with their own fear to follow in Auguste’s footsteps. 

Not that anyone could blame them.

There were few people in this world like Auguste. 

And there was about to be one less.

Laurent forced the thought back along with the bile that rose in his throat. They were being led off the stage and into the old wooden building that stood as a place for the families to say their farewells. The guards pushed him towards it and he moved forward, drifting in a haze as his mind scrambled to find any explanation that could change this reality. 

But it came up with nothing.

“Laurent,” Auguste took him into his arms, falling to his knees and moving his hands to cradle his cheeks. He tried to focus through the blur of tears that threatened to take his vision. “Laurent, look at me.”

“Take it back.” Laurent’s voice was watery with the tears that had won the battle and fallen down his face, spilling over Auguste’s fingers. “Take it back. Tell them you changed your mind.”

“No.” 

“Tell them to take me!” His voice was desperate as he gripped Auguste’s wrists. “Tell them to–”

“No,” Auguste repeatedly firmly, pulling Laurent to him until his face was hidden in the soft silk of his hair. “You know the rules, Laurent.”

Of course he did. They’d grown up in this cruel reality, and he’d seen enough to know that there was no turning back once the tributes were announced. Many had already attempted to circumvent the system. Volunteers who, succumbing to the fear that the game naturally invoked, tried to change their minds and found out very quickly, and brutally, that such a thing was not an option. Worse still, older siblings who later decided that they were willing to die in the place of their family were turned away and left to watch the game helplessly as their younger brothers and sisters perished beneath the sword. 

Neither Laurent nor Auguste could change what had happened outside of this little room. 

And even if they could, he knew Auguste wouldn’t.

“Why?” The question was muffled between them, but the word was clear as day. “Why did you have to do that?”

“I couldn’t live with myself if I let you go.” Auguste’s arms tightened around Laurent and he pleaded with whatever deity would listen to keep him there. “What would father think if I had let you die?”

“I wouldn’t die,” Laurent choked on the last word because he knew it was a lie. 

“Maybe you wouldn’t,” said Auguste, and Laurent was almost surprised that his words didn’t sound at all like he was trying to indulge him. “You’re clever, Laurent. If anyone could think of a way around the games, it would be you.”

“I’m not like you.” Laurent said, “I don’t know how to fight. Where would my cleverness get me?”

“Brute strength has not always won the games.”

“It has to this time.” Laurent placed his hands over Auguste’s and held them there. He could hear the guards approaching. “You know how to fight. I’ve seen you. I know you can do this.”

“I’ll try.” Auguste promised. He started to withdraw and Laurent held on tighter.

“Don’t try. Win.” Laurent searched his eyes desperately, urging him to understand. “Do you understand me? Win.”

“I will.” His voice was stronger now, but it still wasn’t enough.

Because Laurent knew his brother. He knew the type of man that he was. There was no one better, and it would kill him in the end. He would protect the weak at the cost of his own life.

Laurent was proof of that.

“You can’t be yourself in there.” Laurent blurted out the words. “You can’t be noble. You can’t sacrifice. If you want to live, you have to fight. You have to be willing to fight anyone.”

“I think you know these games better than I do,” Auguste spoke the words in a soft laugh. There was no humor in it.

“Promise me,” Laurent urged, ignoring the words. “Promise me you’ll do what it takes.”

“I promise you I’ll come home.”

In a box doesn’t count. 

Laurent couldn’t bring himself to say the words. 

Instead he squeezed Auguste’s hands, their fingers tangling together as the guards walked into the room. 

Laurent tried to fight off the wave of hysteria that came over him as the guards pulled him towards the door. This was his last moment with him. The last time he might ever see Auguste, and he refused to have terror in his eyes when he left. 

He was pulled through the door as his mother took hold of Auguste’s hands and spoke, softly but firmly, “Win.”

And then she was with him, gathering him into her arms as they were ushered to the main door and into the brisk air waiting for them outside.

Wood met wood in a determined slam and Laurent stared at the door, wondering how something so simple could keep him away from everything that mattered. It was a few minutes before his mother could convince him to move away from the entrance. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon by the time they had made their way to the edge of town and towards their dilapidated house.

“Your brother’s strong,” Hennike spoke at last. Her grip on his hand, steady and reassuring, had been his only reminder that he was not alone in this. “He’s going to come back, Laurent. He’s going to win.”

He wasn’t sure if the words were meant to comfort him or her. 

He didn’t say anything either way. There was nothing else to say, because admitting to any other possibility would make it real.

Auguste had to win. He had to come home, because Laurent wasn’t sure who he was without him. And he didn’t want to find out. 

“Do you think he’s already on the train?” Laurent’s voice broke the silence once they had closed the rickety door behind them. 

Hennike walked over to the table and uncovered the piece of bread they had stolen a slice from earlier that morning. She cut off two slices and started to cut a third when Laurent touched her wrist.

“Mom.”

The knife stuck out of the bread, halfway through its task, a reminder that they didn’t have a reason for another slice. Hennike stared at it and swallowed slowly before turning her eyes to Laurent, a brave face strapped in place.

“I’m sorry, dear,” her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “Did you say something?”

“I asked if we could have an extra piece tonight,” Laurent lied, taking hold of the knife and finishing the job. He cut the third slice in half and distributed it. 

There was a long pause as Laurent sat down and took a bite of the bread. It sat like a dry lump in his mouth, but he forced himself to chew it into smaller crumbs and swallow.

He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask the question again. A question he wasn’t even sure he wanted the answer to. What difference did it make if Auguste was already on the train? He was leaving either way, whether it be in an hour or a day. 

Although somehow he knew that every second mattered. Every minute that kept distance between his brother and the games was another minute that he could breathe freely. 

Or at least pretend to.

He felt his mother’s grip on his hand and turned his eyes to her, blinking. She was staring at him as if she had said something, and he wondered briefly how long he had been sitting there holding that dry slice of bread near his lips. He set it down and ignored the ache in his stomach. 

“What?”

“I said I’m here with you,” Hennike repeated. 

Laurent felt a tug on his wrist and allowed himself to be pulled into her arms. The familiar warmth was enough to settle his mind for a few fleeting moments, enough for him to think. He gave himself over to it, closing his eyes and resting his head against her shoulder. He could feel the steady beat of her heart, a reminder that death was not the only thing surrounding him.

He wasn’t alone. He knew that. 

His mother was one of the strongest people in this world. She shared his passion for knowledge and used her wit to keep food on the table long after their father had gone. She had been the foundation they’d built their lives on. The reason they lived to this day. Laurent couldn’t remember much about his father; he had been only five when he disappeared from their lives. 

He did remember her tears, though. They had lasted for months, but it didn’t change anything. She kept moving. She kept living.

“Sometimes the pain has to come out,” Hennike had said once, when Laurent had touched her wet cheeks. She grabbed his little hands and pressed kisses over his fingertips, forcing a smile that looked so real when he’d seen it. “But that’s okay. You can still cry and be strong. Tears are not a weakness. Emotions are not a weakness.”

They felt like a weakness now. 

Laurent wanted to cry. He wanted to scream and tear apart the world, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t destroy the Regency, and he knew that. Showing them how he felt in a futile attempt would only prove that they had won. 

And he wouldn’t let them break him.

There was a knock on the door, and Laurent pulled back from his mother as she rose to answer it. She gestured wordlessly to the loaf of bread on the table and Laurent hurried to hide the food as Hennike claimed the knife left behind. She walked to the door, blade clutched behind her back, knuckles white. They had learned early on that the town couldn’t be trusted. Hunger had a way of forcing people to do the unimaginable. The sun had long since tucked itself below the horizon, and the entire town had witnessed the loss of their strongest family member.

They were weak. A target.

And humanity was merciless.

Hennike opened the door.

“Jord.” 

The surprise in her voice was almost as strong as the shock that shot across Laurent’s nerves at the sight of his brother’s oldest friend and Vere’s most recent champion. Something was wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Every champion became a mentor for the next batch of tributes and naturally boarded the train with them when it was sent off to the capital. Which meant that Auguste hadn’t left yet. 

And the reason for that couldn’t be a good one.

“What are you doing here?” Hennike’s voice barely contained the fear rising in her. “Did something happen to Auguste?”

“Auguste is fine. It’s…” Jord trailed off and his gaze involuntarily drifted in Laurent’s direction. “I’m here for a different reason.”

Hennike followed Jord’s line of vision. “For Laurent?” 

“I only know what I overheard,” Jord offered as a means of explanation. It wasn’t enough.

“No,” Hennike spoke with finality, positioning herself in front of Laurent. “They’ve already taken one son from me today.”

“I’m not here to take him from you, Hennike.” Jord was holding his hands up and Laurent suddenly realized that his mother had taken the knife from behind her back and was holding it out, prepared to fight. “I’m only here to warn you that they’re on their way.”

“Laurent, run.”

The urgency in her voice was overwhelming, but it wasn’t enough to move his legs. His mind was working through the possibilities and as hope took hold, he realized that he couldn’t run from this. For the first time since the dawn of the games, something was different. And as unlikely as it was, there was the small chance that this something could be enough to save Auguste.

And Laurent was willing to give anything for that. 

Even his own life.

“Hennike,” Jord took a slow step towards her and angled his hand in the direction of the knife, “You know you can’t do this. You can’t take on all of them.”

“I can try.” 

“You’ll die.”

Hennike tightened her grip on the knife and Jord stopped his advance. “Laurent, do as I say.”

“No.”

The word was so foreign that Laurent wasn’t sure that it had come out of his mouth at all. He could probably count the number of times that he had refused his mother anything, and this was one of the few. 

The shock of it showed on her face.

“Laurent.”

“What if they heard me?” Laurent spoke in a rush, all of his thoughts pushing to his lips. “What if they heard me tell Auguste that I wanted to take his place? What if they decided to let me?”

Hennike stared at him for a long moment before whispering, unfathomably. “Why do you sound like you’re excited by that?” 

“Because I could save him.” The response seemed so simple, so obvious, that it didn’t seem possible that she wouldn’t understand. 

But it was clear that she didn’t. 

“Don’t wish for such things, Laurent.”

“For what? To save him?”

“To die in his place.” 

The look on his mother’s face told Laurent that she had already condemned Auguste. She had no illusions of the games. She knew the inevitable outcome for all but one of the competitors, and she was already losing hope that the victor would be her son. Years of watching children die and families suffer had taken away her faith. She had little else to give.

All she had left was Laurent. 

“Your mother’s right.” Jord spoke, drawing Laurent’s attention. “You’d die in the games. Auguste can fight. He stands a chance.”

“He said I was clever.” It was a pitiful argument, and the only one he had left. 

“You’re still a boy, Laurent.” The words felt like a knife. “As clever as you are, they’re still men who know how to fight better than you do.”

“I could learn.”

“You don’t have time.” 

The flicker of lights caught on the glass of the window and drew Hennike’s attention with it. Jord pushed forward and grabbed for the knife, catching hold of Hennike’s hand when she tried to pull away.

“Jord, let go.” There was a warning in her voice Laurent had only heard a handful of times, none of them ending well. She had made men bleed before.

“The only thing you’re going to do is die for something that will happen anyway.” Jord held fast to her hand, his words a rush with urgency. “Don’t do that to Laurent. Don’t do that to Auguste. You’re no good to them dead.”

“And what good am I if I can’t protect them?”

“You can protect them by living,” Jord pulled on her hand and the knife loosened in her grip. “Give them something to come home to.”

“And what if they never come home?” Hennike stared at Jord. She couldn’t see the fear that crossed Laurent’s face a moment before he could contain it. No one had said that thought out loud until now, and he hadn’t realized how damaging it could be. Suddenly he had to face the idea that Auguste would never come home. That he would never sit at their broken table and eat the third slice of dry bread. 

He felt sick.

“I’ll bring them home to you.” Jord vowed. “I’ll find a way, Hennike, I swear. But please don’t make me tell your son you’re dead.”

Jord stumbled back, the knife in his hand. Hennike, who had let go of it as if it were on fire, was left staring at her empty hand. 

The door burst open.

“Laurent Renault,” one of the men spoke as two armed guards approached him. “Your presence has been requested by the Regent.”

“The Regent.” His mother repeated the words, skin as white as a sheet. “No. Laurent, no!”

The shrill rise in her voice sent a shiver of terror down Laurent’s spine as he was dragged towards the door. His mother ran forward, pulling him into her arms, speaking at his ear in panicked whispers as the guards tried to pry her off. 

“Don’t listen to him. Do you understand me? Don’t listen to a word he says, Laurent.” He could feel her grip loosening as the guards wrenched him away. “He’s poisoned honey. He’ll take you with his words.”

And then she was gone. 

He saw her thrown to the ground by one of the guards right before he was lifted and carried away from the house. He wasn’t sure if the screams he heard were her or his own, but his throat was raw by the time one of the guards shoved something dry and rancid into his mouth. He tried to scream around it. Tried to see the house through the blurred vision of his tears. Tried to see her.

His mind was in a panic, racing desperately for any words that could stop this from happening. He was clever. Auguste had told him he was clever. If anyone could think of a way out of this situation, it was him. He could do it. He had to do it. He just had to think. Why couldn’t he think?

There had to be a way.

There had to be something.

Anything.

Nothing.


End file.
